


I feel good all over where you're inside out

by crimsonkitty



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Baseball, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, RPF, San Francisco Giants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-01
Updated: 2012-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:19:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonkitty/pseuds/crimsonkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eli always takes care of him. It's Jonathan's turn to repay the favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I feel good all over where you're inside out

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N 1:** So um. This happened. No it's not the epic Whiteside/Sanchez fic I've been writing for about a month now, but it is the first story I've written and completed since... high school actually. Title from 'Shh' by Frou Frou  
>  **A/N 2:** If you are unfamiliar with the context of this story (i.e. the Phillies/Giants benches clearing incident on August 6th), I suggest you watch [THIS VIDEO](http://mlb.mlb.com/video/play.jsp?content_id=17700131&partnerId=aw-6083728055761918393-996#:).  
>  **A/N 3:** HUGE thanks to littlestclouds for betaing, kazminka for cheering me on, and also everyone on twitter and tumblr for listening to me whine about writing at all hours of the day.

The fight is over, tempers have burnt out, the Giants are still losing, and Eli Whiteside is the new hero of San Francisco.

Nothing gets a crowd pumped up more than a benches-clearing brawl between hardcore rivals except possibly a career, no-name, back up catcher standing in front of his pitcher in the face of a charging Philadelphia dugout. The entire stadium is on its feet as the umpires tell the player he’s been ejected for protecting his teammate.

The unlikely hero doesn’t seem to notice the cheers from his admiring and appreciative audience though as he moves through the dugout as quickly as he can while being bombarded with back slaps and various renditions of ‘atta boy, Whitey.’ Jonathan Sanchez watches the set of those shoulders and the way they flinch any time someone comes into contact with him. He might be the only one who notices. Eli manages to make it down the stairs without too much incident (beyond _‘the incident’_ itself) but Jonathan still slips around the corner into the clubhouse to follow.

By the time Jonathan gets down there, Eli is already ripping his gear off like it’s burning through his skin, flinging chest pad and shin guards into his locker with unnecessary force. Jonathan figures all that’s left to do is wait until the game face drops and the cracks start showing.

Eli’s face is cold and blank to the point of looking numb as he re-tucks his jersey and pulls on his cap on the way back upstairs into the dugout to gather the rest of his gear. Jonathan sits in the chair labeled Whiteside and rubs a hand over his mouth.

Eli comes back down into the locker room not even a minute later, hands full with bats and batting helmet, various odds and ends. Jonathan almost offers to help but thinks the offer would have gone ignored as he watches silently while Eli puts the equipment away, one by one with deliberate, calculated movement.

A forced calm has settled itself over the entire locker room, something heavy and palpable to the point of smothering.

Finished, Eli stands there, motionless, like he’s waiting for some next sign to tell him which direction to go in. Tongue tucked into his cheek like it always is. His knuckles are curled white and that probably should have been the warning Jonathan had been looking for because suddenly Eli is whirling around and throwing his batting helmet towards the other end of the locker room with a yell. It bounces and skips across the floor with loud plastic thumps before rolling to settle against a far off chair. The few other players in the room all jerk in surprise at the sudden noise in a previously quiet space but none of them attempt to approach the catcher beyond a couple of concerned glances. He’s earned the right to be left alone. Eli himself only watches the helmet spin in place with wide eyes and the look of a man not in total control of his own actions. 

It’s that look that tells Jonathan it’s time to intervene before other things start flying. Eli doesn’t get this way often (less than a handful of times since Jonathan has known him and almost never where the entire team can see) but sometimes even the most level headed of catchers needs someone to help him take a deep breath.

“Hey. You okay?” Ignoring all warning bells and every bit of common sense learned from his years in the big leagues, Jonathan gets up to lean against the wall next to Eli and watches those broad shoulders tremble. It’s a stupid question, one that Jonathan doesn’t really need an answer to but still something Eli needs to hear.

“Yeah. M’fine.” The voice is quick but distant, accent blurring at the sharp edges, and Jonathan raises an eyebrow at him. When Eli doesn’t continue or even acknowledge him beyond those few words, he leans in closer.

“Hey. _Hey_.” He pushes his face almost right up against Eli’s in an effort to make eye contact, their noses close to touching. Eli gives him a barely there glance out of the corner of his eye and Jonathan has to assume he’s listening. Eli looks far away, in a different room, in a different city, on a different planet, having a conversation with a stranger. “You have to be honest, remember?” Jonathan implores, intentionally echoing something Eli has said to him a hundred times, even when he already knew what Jonathan was going to say. The asking isn’t the point.

Eli’s chest begins to heave, like he’s not getting in enough air and those eyes are taking on a frantic edge, pupils blown. “No. I don’t know, okay? I can’t...” His anger trails off into silence, unsure and overwhelmed.

He leans both hands against the wall, head down between them, and tries to take a couple of deep calming breaths. It doesn’t work.

“I wanna murder someone, Johnny,” he confesses in a soft voice. “I could kill someone with my bare hands right now.”

His hands curl into tight fists and Jonathan knows it’s probably the wall who’s going to take a beating next.

He’s right.

Eli’s hand pulls back and the only thing that keeps it from connecting with the wall is Jonathan’s hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. He’s never forgotten how strong Eli is but it doesn’t negate the effort it takes to hold on.

“Stop it. You’re going to hurt yourself.” He says it firm and quiet, trying not to pay attention to the others who must be listening in. This is intimate and private and he imagines a brick wall between them and the rest of the world.

Eli’s head whips around and he speaks in a voice so scathing, Jonathan almost flinches back. “Don’t you touch me.”

The next moment though, his face melts into horror and he quickly pulls away from Jonathan with a panicked jerk.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. I don’t...”

He wraps both arms around his head and leans, elbows down, back against the wall.

Jonathan watches his friend dissolve into a shuddering mess of adrenaline and anger and he makes a decision.

“Come on.”

He grabs a handful of orange jersey, completely disregarding Eli’s reaction to being touched before (more like hoping he’s not about to get punched), and pulls him backwards out the door and into the main hall of the clubhouse

He’s not sure whether to expect at least a token protest or not but Eli remains mostly silent as Jonathan pulls him along corridors and into the closest non-office he can find.

It turns out to be a supply room when Jonathan flicks the light on. One of a dozen scattered through out the stadium. Unneeded during game time thankfully, but no lock on the door leading into a possibly busy hallway. Some stacked, unmarked boxes in the corner. Metal shelves going up to the ceiling filled with various odds and ends.

Eli is panicking.

“What-” His eyes are darting around the small space like a wild animal in a cage. Maybe just as dangerous if he lashes out.

“Hey. Look at me.” Eli does, though eyes still flickering between him and the closed door. Jonathan counts having even half his attention as a win. “I said _come on_ ,” and pulls him forward into a hard kiss

Eli makes a small noise against his mouth, his mind on such major overdrive he hadn’t been expecting it, before kissing Jonathan back.

It’s not the first time they’ve done this and it probably won’t be the last. A sort of comfort when the trials and tribulations of the game and the road get to be too much. It’s usually Eli initiating when he thinks Jonathan is spending too much time in his own head, Jonathan sometimes too hesitant to ask for something he might need. It’s unnerving being on the other side of that emotion. Seeing Eli Whiteside out of control.

It is, however, a first time at the park. That had been one of the unspoken rules: Don’t let it interfere. One they both took seriously. Baseball doesn’t leave room for distractions, making you carve out each one in your own blood. And this? Eli pushing Jonathan back and up against the wall in between dusty shelves, hiking one of Jonathan’s knees over his hip. This counts as a serious distraction. But Eli looking like he’s going to cave in the face of the next non-teammate he sees counts for something else. Something much more important that needs to be dealt with. 

He lets Eli set the pace of the kiss for the moment, which goes from hard to violent so fast it’s almost impossible for Jonathan to keep up. He can already taste the coppery tang of blood from a busted lip though he’s not sure whom it belongs to.

The hands at his hips are still shaking.

But Eli is biting at his lips like he wants to eat him, their tongues tangling in a mess of slick and heat. Eli breaks off with a brief pull at Jonathan’s bottom lip before placing harsh open-mouthed kisses down the side of his jaw making Jonathan shiver. Pushing sweatshirt fabric out of the way with his cheek to get at Jonathan’s neck, first nuzzling with his nose and then gives no warning before sinking his teeth in. Hard. Jonathan lets out a surprised gasp at the flair of pain and his back goes taut as a bowstring, arching right up into Eli’s body.

“Eli.” He grabs a tight hold on Eli’s biceps, fingers squeezing rings of bruises into the other man’s arms.

Eli pulls away panting but doesn’t go far, staying right there on Jonathan’s shoulder, darting little kitten licks against the wound.

“Sorry. Sorry. I-”

Jonathan is seeing stars, bright lights pulsing in time with his heart beat. “It’s okay. Okay,” is all he manages to get out and that’s a lie because it is beautifully, brilliantly more than okay. His cock is already straining hard against his cup and Eli’s thigh. Each sharp sting accompanied by a touch of tongue is like a shot through his entire body, jolting up and down his spine in the best way possible, and he tries not to think about how he’s going to hide the mark tomorrow or even for the rest of tonight. He manages a few uncontrolled thrusts against Eli’s hip before bringing himself back into the moment. That’s not what he’s here for and it’s really fucking time to remember that. 

He quickly starts untucking Eli’s jersey, pulling it out to get at the skin underneath. Taking a few seconds to push each button through its hole, just to try and get both him and Eli breathing again.

He desperately wishes they had more room and more time for something better but up against the wall in a storage closet is going to have to do for now. Tries not to think too hard about being pushed face first into concrete with Eli pressed against his back, thighs flush together.

“Please,” Eli whispers when Jonathan reaches the last button. Sounding more wrecked than Jonathan has ever heard him.

Eli’s stomach trembles against his fingertips as he trails them up and beneath the black undershirt. Pushes it further as he traces cuts of muscle and exposing Eli’s skin to the chilly air.

He lets the shirt fall back down, trapping his hands against Eli’s skin, and starts to rub a thumb over the belt buckle.

“Yeah?” Because this is about the things Eli needs to say.

“Please,” Eli says again, desperate, lips barely moving against his pulse. Reduced to only a few words. “I need. I need it. Please.”

Jonathan has never heard him beg before, either.

He slowly, methodically, starts to unbuckle Eli’s belt, trying to take back the pace and rubbing at the cut of Eli’s hipbones every few seconds in a small gesture of comfort.

Maybe attempting to regain some of his composure, Eli reaches down to try and push Jonathan’s sweatshirt aside to go for the buckle but the tremor of his hands is so bad, he can’t get a grip. So far and away from the steady hands on the field. Jonathan pushes them away with a reluctant gasp.

Eli lets out a startled protest. “But-”

“Later. Promise,” and silences any comments Eli might have made by sticking his own hand down Eli’s pants and sucking his tongue into his mouth.

The sound Eli makes against Jonathan’s mouth is a high-pitched whine of surprise that echoes through the room and probably down the hall for anyone to hear. Supply room doors were not made to be soundproof. 

Jonathan pulls back far enough to whisper, “Sssshhhhhhhh. Someone might hear,” before going right back in. Eli tastes like bubblegum.

He starts out slow, steady strokes from base to tip, taking his kisses deeper like they have all the time in the world. Eli, in between each kiss, is pushing himself as close as possible, molding himself to the contours of Jonathan’s body as if to soak up every bit of heat.

Slow to the point of ridiculous. Much too slow for this to be anything but torture for Eli. Eli’s quiet whimpers and minute push of his hips are proof of that. And then Jonathan adds a twist at the head, fingers catching rough on the underside.

Eli gives a strangled moan, like he’s swallowed up all the air in his lungs. His hands alternate between fisting in Jonathan’s sweatshirt and clawing at the cement against Jonathan’s back.

“Oh god,” he manages, accent leaking in every direction, hands pushing up to feel the bumps of Jonathan’s spine, holding him that much closer. Jonathan does it one more time just to feel Eli jump out of his skin while pressed against him.

He decides it’s probably the best moment to let Eli go, even if just for a second. Let him focus every part of his mind on this. The stale air is cool on his skin as he lifts his hand out.

Eli protests, fingernails digging into the small of his back like he’s actually in pain.

Jonathan mutters a quick ‘hold on’ and spits in his hand for something other than sweat. After that, it’s a nice glide of warm skin, easier on the both of them. He whispers, “Better,” before meeting Eli’s open mouth with his own.

And it’s back to that same, gentle rhythm. When Eli starts trying to pick up the pace himself, pushing his hips in harder each time, Jonathan won’t let him follow through. Because he knows that, in this moment, it’s his job to set the pace, taking Eli out of his own head and putting him back into a world where there are rules and things make sense.

“Johnny...” panting it against the underside of his jaw, Eli makes a desperate plea for more, for something to tear to pieces until he stops seeing red.

Jonathan only shushes him. “Let me do this for you, okay?”

“I can’t...” Eli’s heart is pounding against Jonathan’s chest, pounding right through it like it might explode.

“Yes, you can.” And he knows what it means for Eli to let him do this. To let Jonathan see him at his lowest point and allow him to take control. In Eli’s mind, it’s unthinkable. And yet he’s on the reverse side of it almost every day for Jonathan when Jonathan sometimes can’t tell a baseball from a live grenade.

In the mean time, Jonathan alternates between whispering soothing and filthy words in Spanish to Eli’s temple and keeps his hand moving at a steady pace. unsure if he’s grateful or disappointed that Eli won’t understand them.

“ _Ssshhh. It’s okay. Next chance. Want you to bite me all over. Every bit of me. Just relax, you’re gonna be fine. You can let it go now. Next chance we get, Eli. I swear to god_.”

It’s only when he feels those shoulders start to loosen and go still does he pick up the pace. The little gasps and breathy noises let out by Eli get louder and more pained.

Hard twists and pulls, thumb stroking over the slit, Eli completely out of control in his own body but for once, safe in Jonathan’s hands.

“That’s it. Thaaat’s it,” Jonathan murmurs, Eli giving a wordless cry, tucked against Jonathan’s neck to muffle the sound and hide his face. He comes over Jonathan’s hand.

Jonathan gives a few last, steady strokes of Eli’s cock, if only just to feel the non-adrenaline fueled tremors of pleasure wrack through Eli’s entire body.

Slowly, Jonathan lets go, one finger at a time, before pulling his hand out and placing it on Eli’s hip, the two of them crushed together in some sort of quasi-embrace.

Somewhere between then and now, the fight went completely out of Eli Whiteside. He’s sprawled boneless across Jonathan’s chest, the only thing holding up the both of them is the wall, and even then, Jonathan can feel himself start to slide from the extra weight. He tries to plant his feet a little more firmly but the Eli blanket certainly isn’t helping.

“Better?” he asks, reaching up to pat Eli gently between the shoulder blades. Jonathan is still hard but he doesn’t really give it much thought. Plenty of time for that later when neither of them are caught up in a frenzy of anger and flight or flight instincts. He’ll be fine in a few minutes.

“Yeah.” Eli gives a small huff of laughter. “Thanks.”

Jonathan nudges him with a shoulder. “I look out for you too, you know.”

He nods, stubble scratching against Jonathan’s cheek. Jonathan hopes he understands.

Eli pulls away enough for them to breathe their own air but the edges of his unbuttoned shirt still brush against Jonathan’s stomach with every movement. “How’s your arm?”

Jonathan smirks a little. “It’s fine.” He’s not even sore.

Eli narrows his eyes just the tiniest bit, searching his face. “Are you sure? Because-”

Jonathan cuts him off. “It’s _fine_.”

Eli holds up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. It’s fine.”

There’s a moment of reflective silence before Eli speaks again.

“Sorry again about the... uh...” He nods at the teeth marks in Jonathan’s neck with a certain deliberate casualness.

Jonathan claps a hand over them and definitely notices the way Eli tracks his movement, eyes dark, before dropping them down to the floor.

“S’okay. I like it.” He shrugs, like he hadn’t almost come in his pants right then and there when Eli had done it. 

“But you’re gonna need to hide it,” Eli says uncertainly, biting his lip in a way Jonathan recognizes from only a few minutes ago.

Jonathan shrugs again. “Probably.” He makes no attempt to do so.

But then he can’t put it off any longer.

“You ready to go back?” He poses the question as casually as he can while Eli steps away to start buttoning his jersey back up.

Eli gives him an upward glance before looking back down at his shirt. “What if I said no?” sounding genuinely curious.

“I would be very surprised.” He doesn’t take his eyes off Eli then, looking for anymore cracks in the facade. A single word or moment of hesitation and Jonathan would gladly stay the rest of the night in the storage room with him. 

Eli only laughs again and rubs at the back of his head. “Yeah. Yeah me too.”

He gives a pointed glance towards Jonathan’s tented uniform. “Are _you_ ready to go back?”

Jonathan waves him off. “A minute. Or three.” He slides down to the ground, sitting amongst the old boxes and layers of dust, and looks up at Eli looming over to give him a helpless grin.

Eli smiles back, looking like the same person Jonathan has known for the past three years. “Well, we’ll wait a minute or three then.” He finishes straightening his clothes and slips down next to Jonathan on the floor.

They sit shoulder to shoulder for the rest of the game.


End file.
